


kiss me to life

by Tav



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Affairs, Alcoholic Mr. Rogers, Alternate Universe - High School, Bucky is intrigued by the kid NOT falling in love with hi., Consensual Underage Sex, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Gyming, M/M, Mutual Pining, Next door neighbor crush, Pining, Sex Education, Steve is getting stronger in more ways than one, Steven is suddenly not alone, Teacher-Student Relationship, Thor tries hard to do the right thing, Tony doesnt like the way the kid looks at his fiance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-03-06 19:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13418004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tav/pseuds/Tav
Summary: Steven Rogers is your typical awkward teenage boy. Nobody knows that the bullying he receives from the less kind students at school is a mere tickle compared to the type of cruelty that waits for him at home every day at the hands of his notoriously tyrannous father. Nobody knows because Steven tells no one. Why should he when all he has to do is endure one more year of it before he’s out of the house, out of the closet and out of the city off to college someplace far away.But after his music teacher stumbles across secrets Steven hoped he’d be able to keep forever, and after an impossibly gorgeous stranger moves into the house next door, Steven soon realizes that he may not have to wait an entire year to reinvent himself. Not when the ‘demolition of plain old Steven’ starts on day one of his countdown and the ‘birth of Steve 'the kid' Rogers begins’.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. Hope you enjoy this. Its unedited at the moment, so mistakes are my own. Apologies in advance.
> 
>  
> 
> This is taken from true events and twisted and make-upped and fluffed and dashed with sexy avengers hahaha... You get the point...

_Just one more year,_ Steven comforts himself as his shoulder hits the steel locker and his books crash to the ground. One more year and he’ll be free of letterman jackets and cheerleader skirts, the sort of taunting that’s so calculated it should be on the school’s prospectus. One more year and he’ll be halfway across the country in an altogether different society where belligerents lose all self-appointed power and the closet he tortures himself in daily will become a distant memory.

  
“Watch where I’m going, Bigfoot,” Sam sneers and the sheep he’s herding with laugh at the tasteless slur. One more year and Steven will be able to let himself forget that Sam was once his closest friend. His only friend. Steven remembers the very incident that changed all of that.

  
Raised in a house run by a man that the town referred to as Hitler, it was shocking that Steven was allowed to have any friends over at all. But Sam Wilson was humorous and easy, witty enough to even get passed Steven’s father’s tyranny and infamous knee jack reaction to keep his family lifeless and friendless. It took meeting Sam one time for Hitler to waver his seclusion regulation and Steven finally got a chance to experience what it felt like to be a normal teenage boy. Afternoons of homework turned videogames. Videogame marathons turned sleepovers. Until one sleepover went horribly sour. Because Hitler walked into the room to find the two best friends past out on the bed wearing nothing but their boxer shorts in 38 degree weather. And no matter how much the boys tried to explain that nothing had happened, Hitler’s threats were strong enough to convince Sam that he would really be ruined if he didn’t stay away. The bruises on Steven’s arms the next day convinced Sam that it would be safe not to defy the Mr Rogers. And the rumors that spread throughout the private all boys school the following week suggested that Mr. Hitler Rogers had petitioned the school’s round table to ‘keep an eye out’ on boys like Sam, looking to corrupt their pure sons.

  
It didn’t take long for Sam’s remorse to turn to anger, and anger to morph into something that fueled a defensive mechanism and left Steven the subject of his bullying, just in case anyone believed the ridiculous notion that he may really be a gay sexual marauder.

  
And so Steven once again retained his loner status, but with the added nickname of the Virgin Steven. Or Bigfoot due to the fact that his body seemed to grow nearly as fast as his stark intellect. And Steven took solace in knowledge, burying himself in books and philosophy. Because books didn’t turn their back on him, or judge him, or bully him. As Steven bends down to pick up is books, he’s only slightly surprised to find the only other constant in his life who treats him just as kindly doing the Same thing.

  
“You know,” Mr. Odinson smiles as he helps gather Steven’s books, “I can see to it that they spend all holiday in detention.”

  
And Steven knows that’s its true and Mr. Odinson’s concern is sincere. Because Mr. O has been nothing but the very definition of concern since becoming Steven’s Music teacher and mentor for nearly seven years. But as usual, Steven sees no point in fighting blind tyranny when he’s so close to leaving it all behind himself. Just one more year, Steven thinks again, and he assumes Mr. O can read his mind by now. Because his concern holds more sadness than determination – probably due to the countless times that Steven has turned him down on his offer to ‘do something about the bullying’.

  
“If people are trying to bring you down,” Steven smiles, reciting the very words Mr. Odinson preached to him when he was twelve and Mr. O was helping him remove the gum from his hair, “It means you’re above them.”

  
Mr. Odinson returns the smile and stands to walk down the emptying corridors, his stride slow as though he’s giving Steven time to catch up. Because Steven has been following him around for years and it would be weird for the boy not to. Steven often wonders why more students don’t follow him, what with all the wisdom that seeps off of him ready for the taking. And the sensible humour he offers that effortlessly makes the darkest days light. And his stunning smile, shocking blue eyes, unforgivable handsomeness that draws Steven to him regardless of how the hardness in his own pants warns him to keep away. Even before Mr. Odinson had become the sole openly gay entity at the covertly bigoted school, Steven had always been just about the only one brave enough to show nothing but sheer admiration for their foreign teacher. And Steven suspects it’s due to the fact that Mr. Odinson has a way of making it feel as though he’s reading the minds of anyone crazy enough to look into his eyes. Steven accepts that he’s crazy and dying to be read.

  
This is why Steven has spent the past week rehearsing this very speech, the one he can no longer avoid when standing in Mr. Odinson’s classroom on the last day of school before summer break. It still stops Steven’s heart from thundering no less, and despite the casual banter Mr. O tries to engage him in, Steven finds it no easier to follow through with it.

  
“Is there something on your mind, Rogers,” Mr. Odinson’s smile wavers, his joke about Beethoven completely forgotten. Steven’s always hated people using his last name except when coming from Mr. Odinson. But that’s a distant thought as Mr. O circles his desk and stands right beside Steven. And all Steven can do is shift from foot to foot knowing that he’s possibly sweating. His fingers slip on the surface of his teacher’s desk, mind a blank as he feels the other man’s hand circle his wrist. “Does it have anything to do with this?”

  
And then everything falls apart as Mr. Odinson lifts the sleeve of his blazer. The fresh bruises on his forearm are a blatant reminder of how impossible and stupid it is for him to even consider coming out one year too early. And the harsh marks don’t end where the fabric does, they only get darker. And Steven has to escape, because Mr. Odinson shouldn’t think Steven is weaker than he knows his teacher already thinks he is.

  
“No,” Steven covers the marks of punishment that his father gives him whenever the older man sees fit, “I’m sorry.”

  
Steven leaves Mr. Odinson’s classroom so quickly that forgetting his books on his teacher’s desk is even more stupid than it would have been had he left them on the school corridor floor.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Please just stay home, mom?” Steven opts for juvenile persuasion one last time, despite the fact that he’s hauling the last two loads of her luggage out the front door. Steven will never understand why women always need so much stuff. “I don’t think you’re taking into consideration just how long two weeks really is. Its fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours, twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minut-”

  
“Yes, Steven, I get it – you know big numbers,” Mrs. Rogers blows fallen strands of blonde hair out of her face, looking every bit as exasperated as she feels. Everyone who’s accustomed to her usually impeccably put-together self wouldn’t recognize her like this – not when she’s traded her pantsuit for old jeans, stilettos for hiking boots and her ballerina-like bun for a messy French plat. Steven knows he’s the reason she’s running late and she’s disorientated and her t-shirt is on inside out, but he also knows if she didn’t enjoy this sort of customary delay, she would have left town while he was still at school. “You’re not a child anymore; you’ll be perfectly fine without me for a few days.”

  
“That’s what you said last time,” Steven blurts out bitterly, the darkest sort of spite that instantly turns to regret. Because the look that crosses his mother’s face when she spins around to finally look him in the eye is almost as pain filled as the one she’d been wearing the day she’d returned home to find Steven bloodstained and huddled up in the back of her closet. Steven can still smell the copper and feel the pain; he still remembers the intense feeling of fear that threatened to lose its battle against an unexplainable bout of bravado that kept trying to coax him into finding rope and kicking the chair. But Steven tries not to remember all of that and he realizes how unfair it is of him to spring such on his mother right now, especially considering how much he’s evaded talking about it altogether for the past seven years. “I’m sorry, mom. Just forget it.”

  
“Steven, look at me,” his mother demands weakly as Steven purposefully busies himself by loading the trunk of her car with the last of everything she’ll be needing for her work trip. Steven doesn’t listen; he instead begins his weekly tire inspection, because one can never be too careful. Only when she pulls him up by the arm does Steven abandon the task that hadn’t been holding any of his attention to begin with.

  
When her arms come around him and her head rests on his chest, it takes a full ten seconds for Steven to return the embrace. Not only because physical affection is alien amongst the Rogers faimly, but because they’re standing in the driveway across the street from a retired couple that Steven firmly believes are unofficial spies of his father’s. With the minimal amount of time that Mr. Rogers actually spends at home, there’s no way he can know as much as he does about the outward workings of their household without snitches. Steven is the first to pull away, but doesn’t get far. Not with his mother’s hands on his shoulders.

  
“I know what happened wa-”

  
“Mom, don’t,” Steven interrupts, rolling his eyes.

  
“I’m talking now,” she snaps angrily. And Steven is startled; he loves the sterner side of her. He wishes she’d direct it at more deserving people more often. “I know what happened was unthinkable and so very unfair on you. But your father hasn’t had a drink ever since and he’s been trying so hard to change. I know you’ll never forget, but maybe just try to forgive. For me.”

  
“You’re right,” Steven offers her false reassurance with an equally false smile. “He’s really trying, I guess I owe it to him to do the same.”

  
“And besides,” she cups his face and pulls him in for a chaste kiss before smiling up at him as bright as her eyes, “he knows exactly what will happen if he lays a single hand on you ever again.”

  
‘He knows exactly what will happen if I ever actually report to anyone that he still does’, Steven thinks.

  
“You’re going to be late,” Steven says instead, guiding her to the driver’s seat. “Go be the best senior marker since….. there haven’t really been any great ones, have there.”

  
Mrs. Rogers slaps her son’s arm seemingly more at ease about leaving since his humorous side has returned. Not many people know that Steven even laughs let alone leaves his mother in stitches even on the darkest of days.

  
“You know I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have to,” she reluctantly allows herself to be helped into a car like she’s three times her age, “but this is easy money. And I have big plans for this money. You just have to trust me, my love.”

  
Steven is glad that the door is shut and she has to start the car before opening the window. It gives him time to hide his ‘Like I’ve Never Heard That Before’ look of justifiable pessimism.

  
“I left a welcome basket on the kitchen counter,” Mrs. Rogers reminds Steven for the hundredth time and Steven’s groan can’t be heard above the roar of the vehicles engine as she pulls out the driveway. “Don’t forget to drop it off next door today. Today, Steven, not tomorrow or the pastries will flake.”

  
Steven stands in the driveway waving his mother’s departure until her car disappears. There’s already an overwhelming sense of loneliness that consumes him, even before the engine takes its roar further than his hearing can reach. Steven probably would’ve stood there for another full minute were it not for the loud banter coming from the house next door. The ‘For Sale’ sign had been up for nearly two months and now down for two days. The movers are offloading the truck of larger than necessary boxes and furniture that looks like it comes from a set of some pretentious TV Drama where the owners care more for appearance than comfort. Steven is certain they are the type of homeowners used to well-mannered neighbors in a quiet neighborhood where everyone keeps to themselves and occasionally hosts sophisticated private parties hosting CEO’s and Public Figures. Steven always feels sorry for the realtor’s inability to keep any potential buyers in escrow long enough to make the kill. Because there is no way that any sensible person would want to move into and then stay in the house next door to Hitler incarnate. 

 

Still, Steven will do as his mother has asked. He’ll deliver the basket and welcome them to the neighborhood after the movers have left. Maybe, for once, he will prepare them for what they’re getting themselves into.


	3. Chapter 3

Steven’s used to neighbors looking at him oddly when they see him mowing mowed grass or raking a leafless yard. He levels the already straight hedge daily and sprays the rose garden with insecticide, all before taking a brush to the immaculate walls of the pool’s white tiles. 

Steven likes to try something new in the kitchen every day, and today is no exception. He stuffs chicken breasts with shredded mushroom and grated cheese before dunking them in yolk and breadcrumbs. He uses olive oil in a wide pan on low heat as his garlic bread bakes and then he greens up dinner with a cold salad and guacamole. 

 

By the time all the dishes are done and every surface of the kitchen reflects equally spotless utensils, Steven feels the exhaustion of the day catch up to him. The monotony of the year leaves him without any plans for Friday night and so Steven is just about to retire to his room with a book in the empty house. 

 

Then the basket catches his eye. 

 

Steven rolls his eyes as he approaches what he hopes is really his final task of the day. The large basket is overloaded with over-priced pastries and exotic fruits. The two wine bottles make it heavier and the detailed map complete with bus schedules and garbage roster almost make it incredibly thoughtful. In fact, if Steven’s mother didn’t interrogate him for an hour every time she sent him to deliver her welcome baskets, he might have been naïve enough to think it was a genuine act of kindness. 

 

But Steven knows exactly how their next conversation is going to be:  
“Did they look friendly? Are they a couple? Do they have kids? How old are they? How many are they? Do they have pets? Were they nice to you? What kind of furniture do they have? Do they seem clean? Do they look educated?”

 

A one sided tirade of questions that Steven answers with hums and shrugs, purposefully doing nothing to quench his mother’s curiosity. Because although he’d never say it out aloud, none of it was any of her business. Not to mention, no neighbor ever stays long enough to render their private lives necessary to the Rogers. And likewise, the less they know his family; the better off Steven knows they are. 

 

Steven reflects on the previous neighbors who phoned the police after their tires were mysteriously slashed conveniently following a verbal altercation with Mr. Rogers. As he enters the new neighbor’s yard, he makes a mental note to advise them not to rev their engine before the sun rises. Although Steven is not a big fan of flashy cars, he would hate to see the beautiful mustard Acura inexplicably vandalized. 

 

Steven climbs the front porch and rings the doorbell, absently straightening his collar as he’s done several times within a short span of a single year. But Steven is completely unprepared for what stands on the other side of the door when it finally swings open. 

 

Steven has always raised a skeptical brow at the ‘deer caught in headlights’ comparison until he finds himself wholly blinded. It’s like a knock to the back of the head and a punch in the gut all at once when this man – this illusion of everything Steven has come to know as unbearably untouchable - smiles up at him. And the sapphire gaze is too penetrating as the dark haired man looks Steven over with a little more fascination than Steven is accustomed to. But Steven is certain the man sees nothing as mind-blowing as he does, not when Steven is still in half of his school uniform, clothing askew from an afternoon of chores. Not when his hair is a mess and he’s far too clammy everywhere from the sudden and unexplainable increase in temperature for such an otherwise cool, late afternoon. Not when Steven is taking in every bronze slope of calculated muscle. The unapologetic display of discipline from broad shoulders to granite stomach. The distracting curve from hip to groin making Steven wonder what the hell is holding the too-loose pants from falling to the ground. 

 

Steven would do just about anything to see those pants drop. He knows it’s wrong, he knows he’s staring, he feels as though he can’t look away. But then his new neighbor clears his throat and Steven is instantly reminded of exactly where he is. And complete redness drips from his cheeks to his neck when he’s forced to meet beautiful eyes. Eyes that are almost covered by dark chocolate waves that curl slightly along a square jaw yet still fall about his shoulders. And Steven can’t help but feel as though he’s the one half naked with some random drooling one man audience at his doorstep.

 

“I’ve never been eye-fucked by a Brownie before,” the stranger crosses thick arms over his chest, smile widening, “so I take it you’re not here to sell me cookies.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Steven shakes his head, trying hard to focuses on his neighbors eyes. But no amount of concentration can erase the image that’s permanently burned into his mind of what lies beneath the man’s stubbly chin. And so Steven accidently drops his eyes one more time – praying that his mind had been exaggerating perfection due to his own seventeen years of sexual deprivation. 

 

“I’m starving – STEVEN,” he corrects quickly, but it’s too late. The new neighbor is already laughing. A laugh as alluring as the lips it’s coming from. “I’m sorry. I’m Steven Rogers. I live next door.”

 

Steven has always prided himself for being the only human being in existence he knows of who doesn’t have a ‘most embarrassing moment ‘to look back on. Simply because the mundane routine that makes up his life hasn’t afforded the universe a chance to trip him up. When Steven lets his hand out to shake his new neighbor’s, only to realize late that he’s offered the wrong one (according to unspoken handshaking law), Steven is certain that this entire encounter can easily be summed up as the most humiliating moment of his teenage life. 

 

“Hello, starving Steven Rogers from next door,” the man says coolly, further embarrassing Steven with the title once they finally get the handshake right, “I’m Bucky Barnes from this door.” 

 

And of course he has a soldier name and a smoothness to him that both terrifies and fascinates Steven in ways that should be illegal. And it’s not surprising that the heat from Bucky’s hand shoots straight to Steven’s cock where all blood had already rushed to on its own accord seconds after the door had opened. But Steve somehow manages to remember why he’s there. And he’s never been so thankful for his mother’s welcome baskets as he is right then when he’s able to use it as a distraction from the handshake that should have ended a long time ago. Steven is no expert in handshakes, but he’s certain that their hands should have separated at least five pumps ago. 

 

“This is for you,” Steven holds up the basket between them, nearly knocking Bucky’s nose in the process. And anyone may please shoot Steven now, really. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” 

 

Bucky raises both brows, a bemused look on his face as he justifiably examines the contents of the basket before gripping the handle. The fact that their fingers touch in the process shouldn’t make Steven’s body tremble considering their other hands are still clasped together. Steven rectifies this quandary by pulling his hand away and taking a careful step back. 

 

“So you’re not a girl scout,” Bucky grins cheekily, but his slight frown balances sincerity, “you’re a Stepford housewife. I honestly didn’t know people still did this in the twenty first century. Thank you, it’s very kind of you.” 

 

“Believe me,” Steven scoffs easily, “it’s not kind at all; it’s my mother. She’s Greece and I’m just the Trojan Horse.” 

 

“Dark honesty,” Bucky laughs, “I like that, Steve.” 

 

And Steven doesn’t have time to revel in the laugh he accidentally elicited before the two of them are joined by a third man. A man who so brazenly bites down on Bucky’s shoulder, muscled arms circling his shapely waist before dipping one hand into the front of Bucky’s sweatpants. And Steven is certain he’s not the one who should be battling not to swallow his tongue in complete embarrassment since all Bucky does is laugh harder, almost fondly. Almost as if having another man hold his cock in front of a perfect stranger is an everyday occurrence. And Steven finds himself torn between staring directly enough to save the explicit site to memory, or running so far away from these lunatics and never looking back. 

 

“Who is the kid?” the man asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s fishing out an apple from the basket with the same hand he’d used to fondle Bucky’s privates and walking back into the house just as unceremoniously as he’d appeared. But before he disappears around the first corner of the foyer, Steven is almost certain he hears him shout the words, ‘get your cute butt back to bed, we’re not done yet.’ 

 

Steven can’t be sure. Steven’s ears are still ringing. In fact, Steven is almost certain every single one of his senses are playing terribly twisted tricks on him.

 

“You gotta excuse, Tony,” Bucky is already retreating and holding the door, looking fully prepared to close it in Steven’s face. But there’s something about him that makes Steven know that even if he really wanted to slam it shut, he’s just too polite to follow through with it. “He’s not good with people. Or animals. Or children. Or anything that disturbs christening sex.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Steven walks backwards, and just luckily manages not to miss the first step in his determination to appear blasé. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

“See you around, starving Steve from next door,” Bucky winks before closing the door. 

And Steven stands on the second step of his new neighbor’s home for a full minute trying his hardest to determine whether or not any of that really happened.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guy, thanks again for all the support and kudos and comments. 
> 
> Still getting introduced to each character, so apologies if it gets dark before I whip out the fun bits. 
> 
> Hang in there :-D

The sound of the ticking clock is near deafening, but it’s nothing compared to the first earsplitting scrape of Mr. Roger’s knife against his plate. Although the dining room table comfortably seats four more people on both sides of it, at times like this, Steven feels as though he might as well be sitting on his father’s lap.

  
Steven looks up just as his father’s white teeth tug a hearty piece of chicken from his fork. And as if at all possible, the chewing that ensues is even louder than the rest of the imaginary noises that Steven’s brain is programmed to falsify. Because the very real silence that shadows his father is far more unnerving.

  
“It’s a little dry,” Mr. Rogers points out and Steven pays no heed to the hollow bit of predictable criticism. Not when his father is already dishing himself two more cutlets before even swallowing down his first bite. Once his father’s taken a forkful of salad with no further complaints, Steven takes it as wordless permission for him to start with his own dinner.

  
“When’s your report card coming out?” Mr. Rogers finally breaks the silence and Steven is not the least bit surprised that the subject is something as repetitive as his scholastic progress – Mr. Rogers’ third choice to his own workload and politics.

  
“Early next month, Sir,” Steven swallows quickly to answer.

  
“How did you do?” Mr. Rogers stares at his son pointedly, accusingly. And Steven is far too taken off guard to register how his father’s question is in direct conflict with his answer to his father’s former.

  
“I think I did well, Sir,” Steven offers.

  
“You think?” Mr. Rogers frowns.

  
“I mean,” Steve stammers, “I tried my best.”

  
“You tried,” Mr. Rogers places his fork down and reaches for his serviette, a clear sign that none of Steven’s answers are satisfactory. “I’m not paying for you to attend the most prestigious private school in the state for you to _think_ you’re doing well and to _try_ your best. I need you to _know_ without a doubt that every single ‘i’ you dot and ‘t’ you cross is worth three gold stars because I sure as hell am not wasting my hard earned money on a skiver sailing on a wave of uncertainties.”

  
“At last month’s PTA meeting the vice principal told mom that I have the highest Grade Point Average in our school’s history,” Steven blurts out, feeling stupid for not thinking about leading with that. But then again, it’s hard to decide on what to share with or keep from his father what with the way Mr. Rogers loathes pomposity nearly as much as he hates bashfulness.

  
“That’s more like it,” Mr. Rogers finally returns to his meal and Steven sees something close to satisfaction in the man’s icy gaze. Not quite pride, but Steve will take whatever he can get. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Steven settles on. Because it’s less reproachful than ‘Mom did already tell you twice’, yet way safer than forming some sort of lie about how it must have slipped his mind. Mr. Rogers detests forgetfulness.

  
“And what about sports?” Mr. Rogers enquires and Steven freezes. Because it was not too long ago that his father drove a hunting knife into Steven’s basketball. Because Mr. Rogers certainly did not appreciate his time wasted by being called into the school for something as frivolous as boys playing with balls, regardless of how hard the principal and coach tried to convince him that his son had the capacity to get a full scholarship to attend the best university on his three-shot alone.

  
“I prefer to focus on my books,” Steven so often feels like his father’s parrot, “chasing a ball around has no correlation to academic prestige.”

  
“Now I wouldn’t be so narrow-minded if I were you, Steven,” Mr. Rogers cautions, “I read an article that stated that most of these Ivy League Universities are looking for more than just intelligence. The acceptance process alone is judged greatly on how varied your motivation letter is.”

  
“A scout from Boston will be attending our recitals next year,” Steven loves Mr. O even more now for breaking the news to him a month earlier than he was supposed to, “if they like my piano solo I’ll be selected to play at the New England Conservatory Jordan Hall.”

 

“You play piano?” Mr. Rogers raises both eyebrows. And the realization hurts Steven a lot less than the question that follows. “Since when?”

  
“Since I was four,” Steven confesses.

  
“Good for you,” Mr. Rogers nods noncommittedly, “perhaps next year you’ll find something more… interesting to add to your list of achievements.”

  
“Yes, Sir,” Steven agrees, barely audible through nearly gritted teeth. Completely hurt yet with no intention of listening to his father on this one. Not when placing his fingers on ivory keys is pretty much the highlight of his existence. A highlight that’s intensified by the way every melody takes him further away from reality with only Mr. Odinson’s soft words of encouragement keeping him grounded. Keeping him from getting lost along with his sanity. And Mr. O sits beside him, body warm and solid against his own. And long, talented fingers circle Steven’s wrists to loosen them or massage Steve’s shoulders to drop them. Because Steven is always unbelievably tense around his music teacher. Everything, rigid. His body. His existence. His cock-

  
“You know I don’t appreciate it when you don’t pay attention,” Mr. Rogers snaps Steven from deadly thoughts, “I said, do you have a girlfriend?”

  
“I attend an all-boys school, Sir,” Steven says quickly, his knee-jerk answer that always seems acceptable to everyone who probes.

  
“I know what you attend,” Mr. Rogers looks completely irritated with his son’s stating the obvious, “but don’t think I don’t know about social media and all that implies. At your age we had to do it the old fashioned way, but I still managed to bring a nice young lady home for dinner.”

  
“I –” Steve considers the number of excuses he’s practiced in front of the mirror for just such instances, “I didn’t want to disrespect you by bringing a stranger into your home. I thought I wouldn’t be allowed.”

  
“Well,” Mr. Rogers' smile always seems to evoke the smell of brimstone, “now you know you can.”

  
When Mr. Rogers unceremoniously leaves the room, Steven finds himself more confused than relieved, both of which quickly morph into unadulterated dread the second he sees what his father returns with.

  
The brown liquid sloshes like a tiny evil ocean in the crystal bottle, a bottle which is half full suggesting that his father had been falsifying sobriety ever since arriving home that evening. Steven would feel completely stupid for not noticing sooner were it not for the simple fact that Mr. Rogers has mastered to art of concealing his true level of inebriation for years and from everyone. Family, employers, students, even their pastor had no idea that the man’s brilliant smile was plastered on with the aid of just enough whiskey and his explosive temper arrived after one glass too many.

 

Steven immediately begins to feel everything hurt. His head, his chest, even his hands from where he doesn’t realize he’s gripping his knife and fork far too tightly. He’s humbled to childhood and then dragged back to the present, only to immediately be tortured by the many terrible things that could come in the near future. Will come, if Steven does nothing to stop this.

 

“I thought we might celebrate your GPA,” Mr. Rogers beams far too happily for someone who lacks emotion. The only thing more shocking than his father’s pathetic excuse to drink alcohol is the fact that Mr. Rogers is setting a tumbler in front of Steven as well. “Better late than never.”

 

“I’m only seventeen,” Steven breathes out, unable to hide his bewilderment as his father fills up the glass meant for him. Steven is certain that its fuller than he’s ever seen anyone pour in the movies.

  
“A responsible young man such as yourself sharing a celebratory drink with his father won’t kill anyone,” Mr. Rogers reasons and Steven wants to argue since it very nearly could.

  
“You’re not supposed to be drinking,” Steven mutters, throat parched at the site of his father quenching his sinful thirst seconds after clinking his glass against Steven’s that still remains untouched on the table.

  
“I’m not supposed to be drinking,” Mr. Rogers mimics mockingly as he pours himself another drink. “My son is telling me that I’m not allowed to drink in my own home.”

  
“No, Sir,” Steven can barely talk without his bottom lip quivering too much. Not when his father is walking slowly around him, refusing to retake his seat like a vulture waiting for its mark’s last breath. “Mom and Dr. Hill said it’s best if you don’t dr-”

  
“I’m supposed to listen to Dr. Hill,” it’s a sarcastic conclusion, not a question. “Well, I’m not going to let some woman who barely knows me tell me what’s best for me. I’m sitting down and enjoying a nice drink with my son. Now drink up, Son.”

  
Steven hesitates, desperately trying to work out an exit strategy that doesn’t involve his lips anywhere near the glass that’s now pointedly being handed to him. He regrets ever thinking he could get away with anything other than following his father’s orders when his father slams his fist down so hard on the table that Steven swears he hears the crystal chandelier shake above their heads.

  
Steven is coughing the burn away and setting the tumbler aside so deliberately that it nearly slides off the table. He blocks out his father’s mocking laughter as he washes the offensive taste away by downing his own juice, but it doesn’t help much. His mouth still tastes like his father’s breath always smelt while he yelled openly less than an inch away from Steven’s face.

  
“May I please be excused, Sir,” Steven credits the beginning of fresh tears to the whiskey’s earlier sting and is already starting to stand up. But his father has him sitting back down with an hand on his shoulder and minimal effort, an unnerving reminder of just how strong the older man is.

  
“What you _may_ do is refrain from ever telling me what I can and cannot do unless you want a reminder of exactly who made you and how easily I can make you go away. Now, stay down, shut up and enjoy a few drinks with your old man.”

  
And Steven doesn’t know if it’s the liquor that gives him false bravery or his insanity finally catching up to him. But after his father fills up and hands Steven another topped up glass, Steven splashes it in his father’s face and makes a run for it.


	5. Chapter 5

Steven’s father doesn’t know that he has a key for his bedroom door. Steven’s mother secretly changed the locks after the scenario that left Steven in hospital for three days. Unfortunately, in Steven’s crippling panic mode and alcohol induced fuzziness, Steven is unable to remember where he hid it.

  
Steven scrambles through his underwear drawer and then empties out his schoolbag, falling to his knees to search through the mess he’s creating in his haste. Because he can hear his father’s heavy footsteps ascending the stairs and the severity of the trouble to come is made clear with every threat that gets louder as the distance between his father and the door vanishes.

  
When Steven finds the key wedged between two books on his shelf, he all but throws himself at the door and locks it – just as the handle begins to flap.

  
The threats become darker and louder, the fist pounding on the door is so hard that it feels as though its knocking straight through the barricade and leaving marks on Steven’s back. And even though protected for now, Steven knows there’s only one place where he’ll feel truly safe. One place that will afford him the time to get about his wits and calm his mind long enough to keep himself from having a panic attack.

  
Steven makes a dash for his window, navigating carefully enough in the darkness so as not to lose his footing. The distance to the ground is one story away and although it would hurt if he falls, it isn’t high enough for any sort of sought after fatality. Steven knows this, he’s calculated it far too often when roofs begin to resemble diving boards, perfect platforms to end all the pain.

  
After seventeen years of living in this house, Steven can do it with his eyes closed. He climbs, feeling his way up the roof until he finds his perfect spot where the attic window forms a crook square enough for him to be both secluded and comfortable. It’s here where he blocks out the world and watches the stars, many of which he’s made pointless wishes on over the years.

  
And although it’s nothing but the stars that have offered him comfort for so many years, something else immediately catches his attention tonight when his back hits tile and he’s able to breathe again. He isn’t spying. He often forgets to be reminded that neighbors exist due to how short-lived their laughter is. But this is nothing like laughter at all.

  
Steven’s eyes are trained on the balcony over the fence, because Bucky walks out onto the wooden deck. And in the darkness, Steven is ashamed that he knows exactly who it is simply by the shape of his body. A body only made illuminous by one simple light in whatever room it comes from, Steven can only guess is the main bedroom. But the light offers enough to reveal every inch of Bucky that’s not covered by the sole towel around his waist. And Steven wonders if Bucky always wears so little. He forgets all his worries and wonders if Bucky Barnes from next door knows how beautiful he is in such light when the beam catches all the edges and not much else.

  
Even from this distance, Steven can see his hair, bunching in wavy locks and sticking to his shoulders. The man is wet as though he’s showered but he's far from clean. And then Steven freezes as his new anomaly leans over the railing of the balcony. Elbows on railing and head in hands as if in the kind of thought that plagues presidents.

  
Steven wants to make his presence known, introvert mentality rendering his presence let alone his existence a burden. And so he says nothing. And he hides further in his shade, thankful he did so the second Bucky is no longer alone on the deck.

  
It’s Tony, Steven remembers from earlier. Tony, who doesn’t like children or people or anything that disturbs christening sex. And his presence is no less dominating, but in a fascinating way like before. Like before when he simply took Bucky’s shoulder in his teeth and Bucky’s cock in his hand, he now envelopes Bucky in his white robe. All previous disregard to respect falls away as he watches the two men hold each other. It can’t be envy what Steven feels, but it is. It’s alcohol induced envy and that’s all there is to it. And he should stop watching such a personal interaction between an unknowing couple. But then, in the dark of the night with nothing but dim light guiding him, Steven sees Bucky’s towel fall to the ground.

  
Steven holds his breath as he hears Bucky moan. It sounds staged yet expert, downright deliberate. And he doesn’t have to be the smartest guy in his school to know exactly what’s going on in the confines of Tony’s robe. Like they’re agreeing on the perfect position and so easily finding it. Because with in no time, Bucky is bent over the rail and Tony is thrusting.

  
And Steven is convinced he’s losing his mind.

  
Steven knows he should shut his eyes. He should look away. He shouldn’t be getting so turned on while openly watching. But Bucky starts moaning and bucking becomes harder and it’s straight out of every wet dream he’s ever had. And just as Steven is about to abandon all resolve and put his hand over the aching bulge in his pants, Bucky Barnes from next door looks right at him.

  
And Steven’s heart stops, because there’s no way that one glass of whiskey could have him conjuring up such false poetry. And he finds himself unable not to hang onto every grunt and moan and he can’t divert away from the eyes trained on his. And Tony seems too far gone to care that all of Bucky’s attention is not on him anymore. Because the robe slips down yet not far enough and Tony becomes more aggressive in every way Bucky seems to love.

  
But then Bucky turns back and says something to Tony, the invader who stops immediately. And he looks up in Steven’s direction. Steven who cowers immediately, as best he can in his safe little crook.

  
Cock still throbbing and heart still banging, Steven peeks out one more time just in time to see the lights go out and the balcony vacant. He climbs back into his room and stays hidden with this back against the wall.

  
And once again, Steven absolutely has to pretend he imagined it all. His sanity is crucial as he slumps down to the floor. He does allow himself thirty seconds of shamelessness by pulling himself out of his pants and coming insanely hard to the resounding harmonics of Bucky’s moans still fresh in his mind.

  
Steven prefers this form of punishment as opposed to what waits for him later for more than his simple indulgence.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s completely different being on this side of the fence. For one thing, Steven is certain the grass is greener, even though he can’t see the turf in the darkness of the night or from the balcony’s height. The smells are better as well; cool air redolent of a beastly sort of sweetness – the type of raw that breathes color into Steven’s darkest desires, giving each of them life. And in the only bit of golden light that leaks from the open door and onto the wooden deck, Steven feels even before looking down to see that all of his bruises are gone. His skin is bare, pale and smooth. Uncharacteristically desirable, even. And the fact that he’s standing naked in uncharted territory becomes the least of his worries when he realizes that he isn’t alone on the balcony.

 

Bucky is once again leaning against the wooden railing. But unlike before, his back is now against the banister, hands gripping the wooden bar with white knuckles, body arched out toward Steven like an exceedingly sinful offering created solely to tempt weak men into indulging to their deaths. And Steve blames Bucky for his poetic side peaking along with his temperature and his desire and his cock.

 

“He’s exquisite, isn’t he,” the voice is snarky and familiar and close, yet somehow not as close as the rock hard body pressed flushed against Steven’s back. Steve hasn’t been afforded a fair amount of time to excusably hate Tony, but he somehow already does. Perhaps it’s because Tony exudes the type of confidence that Steven only dreams he could muster up. Steven had felt it in their less than ten second afternoon encounter. He’d seen it in the way Tony had made love to – no – fucked Bucky on that very balcony only moments before. But hate melts to something else when Steven feels Tony’s hands on his hips, slick, hard cock sliding between his cheeks before uttering a simple order of, “touch him.”

 

And Steven wants to, but his rearing prevents him from acting on it, despite the fact that nothing about anything that Tony does or says seems up for debate. That’s why Steven isn’t the least bit shocked when he’s suddenly within breathing distance of Bucky, his wrist in Tony’s large hand that’s guiding his own to Bucky’s chest. But Steven balls his hand up just before his palm can press against warm flesh. Because Steven doesn’t deserve such pleasure and satisfaction. No, that’s not it, it’s because it’s wrong and not something that should be making his cock leak. No, it’s not that either, it’s because Bucky belongs to Tony and this is obviously some sort of test- a way to trick Steven into validating Tony’s reason for pounding him into a pulp when the police roll by.

 

  
“Looks like he doesn’t want to play with us, kitten,” Tony’s tone is more mocking than disappointed, sounding every bit as unconvinced as Bucky looks.

 

“No, it can’t be that,” Bucky inches closer if at all possible. And even though Bucky’s hands slide directly over Tony’s, Steven can feel uninterrupted heat from the long haired man’s palms burn marks into his hips. “I think he’s just an untouched little cub. Look at him, he’s terrified.”

 

“I think _scared stiff_ is more accurate,” Steven feels his knees buckle when Tony wraps his hand around his painfully hard cock. “Be a darling and show him that not every man that puts his hands on him means to hurt him.”

  
  
And Steven wants to beg the two men to show him that those words are true. Because he wants so badly to believe it, he wants to believe that it’s possible to be held but not strangled– to be grabbed but not bruised. Steven wants to relish in the way that it’s the first time he doesn’t automatically shield his face when Bucky raises his hand up. Because there’s nothing even remotely threatening in Bucky’s eyes or the soft caress that traces his jaw that’s been broken one time too many. But Steven doesn’t get a single word out. Because just as quickly as it all began, Bucky is crouched down between his legs, parting his lips as Tony guides his cock into Bucky's warm mouth.

 

And Steven loses it.

 

Loses the false reality as his eyes snap open and he’s back in his room. He loses his breath as the sheer velocity of pleasure that pounds through his veins is more than he’s ever felt before. He loses every bit of self-respect as he spills into already crusty slacks. But he refuses to allow himself to lose the memory of how real it all felt. He hangs onto every texture of his dream, even as reality wins the battle with every ragged breath he takes.

 

As Steven’s breathing evens out, he quickly becomes aware of more things. The most terrifying being the fact that the sun is up before him, it’s Saturday morning and he hasn’t even started a single one of his chores. The most important being cooking breakfast for his father, the same man who he outwardly – stupidly disobeyed the previous night.

 

Steven is unable not to shake through his shower despite the water's heat. He wants to burn his clothes which now reek of light liquor and shame instead of unadulterated ecstasy like they had only moments ago. He nearly trips down the stairs, trying so hard not to think about the consequences for his previous night’s actions – praying to the God he stopped believing in before he was old enough to know he had an option, that maybe, just maybe his father was too drunk to remember or is too hungover to notice Steven’s existence.

 

Steven is, however, shocked to a complete halt as he enters the usually vacant kitchen. And not mainly because his father is seated at the kitchen island, plate half full of bacon and eggs and half eaten toast that looks as good as it smells. Not mostly because his father is freshly groomed and fully suited, appearing far too happy for a man who is about to lecture ‘a bunch of idiots’ for six hours on a day typically meant for rest. And it’s not even because his father smiles at him upon noticing him enter, offering a toast of wordless greeting with the steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

 

It’s largely, chiefly due to the fact that the person obviously responsible for the perfectly prepared breakfast is Natasha. Natasha Romanov, Steven’s former babysitter. Natasha who was lucky enough to obtain a full scholarship to attend the same university that his father works at, and achieve distinctions in every subject he lectures. Natasha, who his mother loathes with no clear explanation as to why she forbade her from ever entering their home again. Steven had been too young to understand it back then; it had been too long ago for him to remember how sad he’d been to see his favorite babysitter leave. But Steven gets it now. Steven understands it entirely as he watches his former babysitter plate another dish, wearing nothing but one of his father’s expensive button-down shirts.

 

“Hey, kiddo,” Natasha beams, and it’s a lot more emotionless than Steven remembers her sounding. Although, looking back now, there was something awfully detached about her approach on life. ‘You can do your homework later, let’s watch a movie now.’ ‘Your mom won’t know if you ate that or not, let’s order a pizza.’ “I made enough for everyone, ‘you hungry, champ?”

 

“Steven has some chores to do first,” his father warns, veiled by a fake coat of kindness, “don’t you, son?”

And Steven has never felt as young and helpless and angry as he feels right then - what with Natasha’s pet names, his father’s fakeness and both of their sheer audacity to play this off as absolutely nothing abnormal.

 

“I’ll save you some,” Natasha says, cheerfully albeit disappointed. And it’s the first time Steven could honestly hit a woman with zero remorse. “You’ve grown so much, it would’ve been nice to catch up. Maybe when you’re done-”

 

“You-” Mr. Rogers interrupts, noticeably lacking his usual amount of annoyance when someone tries to make plans without consulting him first, “-will be in class by then. In fact, you should be getting ready now.”

 

And then Natasha’s youthful clumsiness returns as she checks her watch, bites into her toast and makes a dash for the stairs. But as she passes Steven who still stands in the doorway not having uttered a single word the entire time, she stops to squeeze his arm and say, “What would we do without him. Catch you around?”

 

And while Steven is aware that neither seem to notice or care that he lacks words, the only thing that really comes to his full attention is the blatant challenge in his father’s icy glare when he finally looks back at the man. It’s a dare that Steven won’t fall victim to despite how much his blood is boiling, palms sweating and chest burning.

 

It never takes Steven over an hour to complete his backyard chores, but he can’t bring himself to show face in the house again. His mind is racing, fists clenching garden tools harder than necessary. Hands shaking so hard that he has to focus not to clip too much or plough too deep. And only when he hears the garage door open and his father’s car leave does Steven return the tools to the garage.

 

The only thing more unusual than finding the garage door’s side entrance locked is when Steven walks around to find the rest of his house’s doors bolted as well. And the alarm’s red glow shines warningly when Steven finally circles to the front entrance. And Steven could actually scream when he reads the note his father has left attached to the wooden barricade that stands between him and the tiny ounce of freedom he looks so forward to every Saturday morning.

 

The note that reads:  
**_Since you like locked doors so much, enjoy._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone for the lovely comments and kudos. Also don't be too sad for Steven, in walk in the big boys from next chapter on. 
> 
> You guys rock, hope you enjoyed...


	7. Chapter 7

At first, Steven thinks that it’s the sun that wakes him up. Because although he’d made a point of falling asleep in the shade, the sun has done it’s daily amount of shifting so much so that it's burning his cheeks, making his t-shirt stick to his back and causing bright red patterns to dance behind his tightly shut eyelids. Then Steven assumes it’s the position he’s fallen asleep in, neck bent uncomfortably on one wooden armrest while his limbs dangle off the other end. But when Steven forces his eyes open, he quickly realizes it’s something worlds better than anything he was about to curse. And Bucky's head blocks the sun as he leans closer, causing a halo like glow to form around the insanely smooth and soft looking hair that disobeys the ponytail and falls into his face. Bucky, who’s only just moved in next door yet has already claimed permanent residence in Steven’s thoughts and dreams. And Bucky is so close that Steven has to remind himself that he is not a Disney princess who’s just been awakened by true love's kiss.

 

“I’m no dermatologist, but there’s no way this can be healthy for you,” Bucky’s hand is on Steven’s forehead, then his cheek and then his neck. And Steven knows each stretch of skin that Bucky touches is red and getting redder. Then Bucky’s hands disappear and a cool bottle of water is placed against the tender flesh between his ear and collarbone causing pleasant shivers to explode down Steven’s spine. “Drink this and come get some rest inside. You need to cool down.”

 

As Bucky rises to his feet and Steven has his wits about him long to get the bottle open and quench the insane thirst he wasn’t aware of during his unplanned slumber, Steven remembers exactly why he’d fallen asleep there in the first place.

 

“I can’t go inside,” Steven confesses.

 

“You can’t?” Bucky’s eyebrows are high.

 

“Yeah, I-” he buys himself enough time to make up a believable excuse by shaking his top to allow cool air to flow into his neckline and sleeves. Cooling down is not just necessary due to the rising temperatures that come with the end of June. It’s Steven’s customary routine of wearing the longest sleeves and pants no matter the weather. Always baggy enough to cover and conceal the parts of himself that he hates the most. Which honestly, is all of him. Because there’s nothing appealing about a scrawny, six foot tall kid covered in badges special preserved for the type of cowards too weak to fight back. Too scared to defend themselves and overthrow their attackers. Steven mostly convinces himself that he deserves it, knows that he’s at fault for not only being mentally incapable, but physically as well. Something he’s reminded about when he takes in Bucky’s impeccable physique, standing there in a wife-beater and shorts, looking insanely capable of taking down any enemy with a single right hook. Looking every bit as though he’s still waiting for Steven to give him a proper answer, any sort of reason.

 

“I locked myself out,” Steven settles on, trying on a chuckle, “I do that sometimes. I’m really clumsy like that.”

 

Buck’s eyes narrowing, measuring Steven as if he’s an expert at calling out bullshit. But suspicion quickly turns to concern, because Steven has mastered the art of feigning sincerity when it comes to tricking people into believing that everything is okay. Even though he’s usually screaming inside.

 

“Well, come over to mine and use my phone,” Bucky shrugs, incontestably. Clearly unaware that he’s dealing with the master of difference since he’s already making his way towards the fence.

 

“You really don’t have to,” Steven declines while trying not to sound ungrateful for the stranger’s offer.

 

“I insist,” Bucky counters.

 

“No,” Steven stresses. “I really shouldn’t inconvenience you.”

 

And then Steven feels chills when Bucky looks back at him, certain that he’s clearly said something wrong. Hoping that he hasn’t given away too much because the wicked new shade of Bucky’s eyes makes Steven feel as though he’s being undressed and interrogated and autopsied alive all at once.

 

“Steve, I’ve been in and out all day and every time I’ve come outside I’ve seen you stranded out here for nearly nine hours now. I mean, have you even eaten anything?” he adds darkly, a part of him that Steven is completely new to. “Surely your parents will find that reason enough to drop whatever it is they’re doing to help you out.”

 

“My mom is out of town and my dad will be back from work any minute now,” Steven hates the way his half lie holds zero credibility, because all it will take is for Bucky to ask Steven if he even knows what time it is at all. If Bucky looks at his watchless wrists like the man clearly looks as though he wants to.

 

“Well then fortunately for you, you’ll only have to tolerate me for a few minutes,” Bucky’s smile is finally back seconds before he climbs over the fence as if he’s done it a thousand times before. “And if I have to come back for you, I’m throwing you over.”

 

And Bucky’s threat holds no cruelty yet possesses the capacity to end Steven entirely. Steven shouldn’t be smiling as he too jumps the fence and follows Bucky into territory he’s only ever dreamed of.

 

*****

  
It’s all white walls and marble floors, perfectly edged furniture that’s as artless as the abstract paintings mounted on the walls. Steven will never understand how a squiggle and a shape can be called art let alone be sold for thousands of dollars. And Steven would've assumed that the emptiness of the house was due to the fact that his new neighbors had only just moved in were it not for the fact that the bareness actually felt complete. Like a single more plant or chair would throw off the entire aura. It’s like Steven has walked into a livable gallery where the most beautiful piece of artwork in it is Bucky.

 

Steven finds himself completely transfixed as he sits on the black leather couch beside Bucky, the French film on the big screen TV completely forgotten. The way Bucky’s eyes brighten up as he shares far too much and way too easily about his own life is so absorbing that a lot of what’s actually being said is overpowered by the initial delivery of it. But Steven does at least learn that Tony and Bucky are partners and have been for a decade. Not just lovers which Steven still finds hard to digest when being discussed as easily as the weather, but business partners as well. While Tony does all the traveling opening gyms and conducting health seminars, Bucky works the books and deals with the high profile clients who feel their too good to sweat in public. Steven finds himself impressed by how many politicians and celebrities have hired Bucky to help them stay in shape. Fascinated but not shocked considering the kind of shape that Bucky is in. So much so that the words of envy are spilling from his lips before Steven can remember his place.

 

“Who hurts you, Steve?” Bucky asks sincerely, snapping Steven from his uncharacteristic spell of speaking before he thinks. In actual fact, Steven has lost track of just how much he’s shared, because Bucky is suddenly sitting way too close. And he’s setting both Steven’s and his own cup of tea aside before placing a warm hand on Steven’s thigh. And any other moment, Steven would be floating in a haze of arousal, but there’s far too much bile suddenly rising up in his stomach, the same feeling he gets whenever false feelings of hope threaten to lead Steven to believe that he can escape the darkness. Because Steven isn’t allowed to fool himself into believing he can be happy, not when every genuine smile usually just paves the way to a split lip. He’s not allowed to be happy or to share or to attempt safety. Steven shouldn’t be there at all. And the second he remembers that, Steven does what he does best. He runs in order to protect the misery that is his life. Because exposing it will result in so much worse.

 

So just like with the school’s guidance counselor and Mr. Odison and anyone else who’s stupid enough to question a bruise or few too many missed days of school, Steven mumbles an inaudible excuse bolts.

 

But Steven finds himself not knowing what to do, because for the first time, Steven doesn’t make it far enough before he’s pulled back into strong arms. Because no one has ever cared enough to run after him, or felt enough to understand his pain enough to realize that one more bottled up situation just might be that one too many. And so all Steven can do is let this stranger do what not a single other person has ever done before – Steven let’s Bucky see him break down.

 

“No more running, kid,” Steven hears Bucky say above his own sobbing, “not while I’m around.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for all your patience. And to the new readers, hope you're enjoying. 
> 
> I'm honestly not even close to finishing my scripts (never taking on two at a time ever again) but I decided to give into my slash itch and scratch it hard :-D
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Very unedited.

Steven has never really experienced anything quite like this before. He’s scowled while watching it happen in movies, more out of complete envy than misplaced cynicism. He’s read about it in the romance shorts that he tears out of his mother’s magazines and strategically places between the pages of comic books or Stephen King novels. Either or, depending on whether he’s riding the school bus or on another forced family road trip. He’s snorted at by his peers for still thinking Superheroes are cool and he’s praised by his father for expanding his mind rather than following the majority his age who spend all their time with their noses against cellphone screens. But all that matters to Steven is the integrated fact that they all leave him alone. They leave him alone not knowing that Steven is pampering his deepest and darkest desires as he reads lines, paragraphs and phrases that tell tales of bodies colliding and hearts slamming and men loving.

 

Steven knows he dreams too much, because dreams are all he has. And Steven has spent far too long dreaming of the type of high that comes from being hugged. No, not the guilty condolence ones from his mother or obligatory hundreds from the more dedicated members of the congregation at church. He dreams of that explosive type of embrace that increases dopamine levels in the brain. The type that releases endorphins and regulates hormones and all the other crazy chemicals with crazier names and unexplainable properties that result in both entities crashing into each other’s existences in those moments when there’s nothing but nothing between the two of them.   

 

Then Steven remembers he doesn’t have to dream about it anymore, because it’s actually happening. He realizes he was only dreaming about it in the first place because he’d fallen into a blissful sleep, completely unfamiliar to him.  He’d subconsciously been afraid to wake up because Steven was so afraid of losing the feeling. But even as he stirs to life and unconsciously turns his head to see if Bucky is really real, all the older man does is smile and squeeze. Bucky’s arm is still around Steven’s waist, his chest still against Steven’s back, their legs still tangled.

 

In Bucky’s arms, Steven feels small yet not insignificant. Weaker, yet not inferior. Exposed, but not humiliated. And it’s strange when he remembers every bit of humiliating detail of his life he’d shared with Bucky over the past few hours.

 

 

Like telling Bucky about the first time he realized that his father wasn’t really a Superhero after all. Because no amount of good memories Steven had of them running around in capes and masks and underwear over pants could erase the first time he witnessed his father strike his mother. It was the loudest sound ever, hearing the whack of his open hand collide with her face with so much force that it literally knocked her off her feet. And when she dared to rise again, he made her regret ever disobeying his order to _stay down where she belonged._

 

Steven didn’t have a wild enough vocabulary to depict his father back then, and so he settled on _big meanie_. That’s all a four year old can do. It’s a shame that back then he didn’t realize that it’s also all a four year old _should_ do. Steven learned that the hard way after stepping in to push his father off his mother resulted in him being shoved back into the glass coffee table in the center of the living room. Doctors hadn’t bought the story of Steven losing his footing while defiantly jumping on the couch, not when the bruises on his mother’s face matched the single one on Steven’s chest. But like his mother, the doctors did nothing but clean what needed cleaning and stitch the rest.

 

Steven wasn’t even humiliated when he told Bucky about the broken nose after a spilt glass of milk or two broken fingers after touching the brand new Lamborghini just as his father told him not to. He wasn’t humiliated because of one simple thing that Bucky finally uttered when Steven’s throat was too dry from speaking.

 

“It’s your father who should be humiliated, not you.”

 

“You know, I was thinking -” Bucky begins as if they’d never stopped speaking. The hand that’s not around Steven’s waist is now stroking his short hair and Steven wonders how comfortable the other man can really be laying on the couch in that position. But the shivers provoked from Bucky’s wandering fingers and short breaths against the back of Steven’s neck are enough to make him remain motionless. “- I was thinking that you should join me at the gym.”

 

“What?” Steven breathes out a short laugh. And not just because he was hoping Bucky’s thoughts had been more along the line of _‘we should stay like this forever’_.

 

“Hear me out,” Bucky sits up but doesn’t go far, face noticeably brighter. “I was a lot like you at your age; the only difference being I was completely out since…” Bucky thinks for a while and then chuckles, “-I honestly don’t even remember ever being closeted.”

 

Steven laughs both with fascination and due to the look on Bucky’s face. An offended sort of look that makes it obvious that the very idea of hiding who he is is too insulting for Bucky to even comprehend. Steven is certain that envy will remain a constant emotion felt when around Bucky, among other feelings that should be left unfelt.

 

“Needless to say I was the target of a lot of bullying,” Bucky says quickly as though he doesn’t care to remember or dwell on it, “-and no one to defend my honor since back then being gay wasn’t as acceptable as it is today. Even my family stopped coming to my defense when the school called them in due to yet more bullying because they said, hey – he made his choice, now he must suffer the consequences.”

 

“So I was this lonely queer, short- I didn’t have your disgustingly unfair height which I hate you for, by the way-” Steven laughs despite the fact that Bucky isn’t. There’s something too lovely about Bucky to feel anything short of complete adoration for everything he does and says. “-this kid with the will to stand up against anyone who tried to bring him down, all I lacked was the capacity. Until one day when I was being beaten up outside the arcade because according to the boys from my school, faggots should play with Barbies not video games – some guy who was passing by came to my defense. He was one of those cock diesels with no neck and he practically threw every one of the boys off of me one handedly, two at a time. And he didn’t help me up physically, I guess it’s because he knew he was about to help me up in every single other way possible known to man. He crouched beside me and told me; _I hate violence, I’ve never ever once been in a fight in my life, I’d sooner run away than throw a punch. But I’ve also never once been pushed around, because even a bunny looks deadly with fangs._ ”

 

“Took me longer than I like to admit for me to realize what he meant,” Bucky smiles again. “But when I finally did, I hit the gym. I hit it so hard until my body began to reflect my inner strength and in turn deflect all bullies’ advances, because I was suddenly the picture of everything that could stand up to them. No tormentor wants to be faced. That’s why your dad and the boys at school do what they do to you. You understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

 

Steven isn’t quite sure how to respond to that, wondering how the focus is suddenly back on him when he was so thoroughly engrossed in the bitter sweet details of Bucky’s past. There’s a ghost of frustration on Bucky’s face before he continues. “I want us to work out together. I want to be your trainer.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter for now....and some art coming up....its actually done but It's not....done lol... oh the joys of never being happy with your own work....

Steven has no idea why he’s entertaining any of this considering how he has no intention of taking Bucky up on his offer at all. Perhaps it’s the enticing way Bucky’s face lights up with the kind of enthusiasm that could trick any Eskimo into buying a truck full of ice from him. And so Steven finds himself standing in a glass-walled room on the second floor of his neighbor’s house. A room that could easily be the world’s best art studio but is filled with a ton of gym equipment instead.

 

It isn’t like Steven is against fitness and the many obvious benefits that come with it. In fact, he used to run track in his younger years and has a few gold medals that prove he wasn’t at all terrible at it either. But as puberty started kicking in, Steven just decided to stay clear of any extra school activities that involved locker rooms and sweaty boys in short shorts; so he stuck to music instead. Something he found no easier after spending hours alone with Mr. Odinson in a cramped music room. Still, it was worlds safer and focusing on notes and tabs became his comfort zone. But he can’t, for the life of him, bring himself to inform Bucky that he’s wasting his breath as the older man rambles on about the various machines and which muscles they target. It might have something to do with the fact that Bucky can’t stop staring at him with ravenous eyes. Like he’s Dr. Frankenstein and Steven is a mess of limbs he can’t wait to stitch together in order to form the perfect man. Like he’s already picturing Steven with an underwear model’s body regardless of the fact that Steven is far from it. 

 

Steven regrets ever even thinking the latter when Bucky pulls out a clipboard and measuring tape from a well-placed desk in the corner before uttering the words that Steven has always dreaded the most.

 

“Take off your top,” Bucky orders with the same mix of nonchalance and authority as his family doctor uses. When Steven does nothing more than stare at Bucky for a few horrified seconds, Bucky finally looks up and abandons whatever it was he was scratching on his clipboard. Bucky finally smiles. “Relax, I’m a professional. I just want to measure you to monitor your progress during the transition. Now, take off your top and step on the scale.”

 

“I can’t,” Steven mutters, his face turning the familiar shade it seemed to favor ever since meeting Bucky.”

 

“Look,” Bucky sighs understandingly rather than annoyed, “we all have to start somewhere. I promise, I won’t ever judge you.”

 

And for the most inexplicable reason, Steven believes every single oath this stranger has made this far. But newfound trust can’t erase years of being professionally guarded. And it most certainly can’t erase the bitter decorations hidden beneath well thought out threads. But before thinking up one of his everyday excuses as to why he can’t perform a task that is so simple to so many, Bucky lowers his clipboard. Places it down as low as his eyebrows furrow and lips curve. And Steven is convinced Bucky has X-Ray vision as the older man looks over his body, an educated understanding drawing every detail that Steven’s clothes prevent him from seeing. And Steven finds himself oddly okay with being that exposed, a feeling that quickly turns to dread when it’s made clear by Bucky that his acute imagination isn’t sufficient enough. 

 

“It’s okay,” is all that Bucky says when he’s standing right in front of him. And Steven wonders why Bucky feels the need to reassure him of this since Steven is incapable of putting up even the meekest of fights. Not even when Steven’s top is over his head and Bucky is sliding the rest of the materiel down his arms. And it’s so gentle as if Bucky is afraid that the slightest of his touches might do more harm. And it’s suddenly so silent that when Steven’s top falls to the ground, the sound of cotton hitting wood is nearly earsplitting.

 

Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the prominent purplish mark that trails down the barely visible jut of Steven’s hipbone. Bucky’s fingertips whisper over its edges so gently it tickles. And in any other circumstance, Steven’s body would be trembling with something far past desire. But now, every single hair that rises is the result of the maddening amount of honesty that’s crashing between them.

 

“What the fuck did he do to you?”

 

“I really accidentally forgot to-” Steven stops, frowns, doesn’t know how to continue. Because Bucky’s question is not at all the same as the - _‘What did you do to make him so angry?’_ – one he always gets from his mother. But regardless of how open the ugly truthfulness between them is, Steven can’t find the words to tell Bucky that his father had actually broken the broomstick handle on him on that particular episode. Because Bucky is suddenly easing the one side of Steven’s pants lower. And it’s low enough to reveal just how far the damage goes, yet respectful enough not to expose any part of Steven that nobody else has ever seen but himself. And so it certainly. Should not. Be turning. Steven on.

 

But by god, it does.

 

“Does this mean I’m making dinner for three?”

 

The other man’s voice makes Steven jump away. Causes Steven to nearly lose his footing altogether when he and Bucky instantaneously look to the open door to find Tony leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

 

“Tony,” Bucky appears a lot less startled than Steven feels considering how Steven is on the verge of throwing up. “It’s not-”

 

“Not what it looks like,” Tony interrupts, indifferently as ever. “Because it looks to me like you’re undressing a pubescent minor who’s overcome his acne years but hasn’t quite lost all his baby fat yet.”

 

Steven isn’t quite sure how he does it, not in such a state of shock. But he somehow manages to get dressed and make it passed Tony even before Bucky can tell him not to leave a second time.

 

*****

Steven is certainly no stranger to being in trouble, even though it truthfully never is his fault. But as he enters the house, Steven is almost eager to face whatever punishment is waiting for him in the lounge. Because he’d lost track of time and it’s after dark and his father is notorious for yelling until he bites his own tongue over misconduct such as that. But Steven isn’t eager to face it due to any sort of masochistic delights he’s secretly harboring. Simply put, Steven just wants something to focus on other than the endless depth of trouble he seems to be digging himself into with anything that has anything to do with his new next door neighbors. Because it’s exciting and confusing and downright inexplicable, and Steven likes to know exactly why he’s being punished regardless of whether or not he deserves it.  He’s craving torture with reason, because he hates having absolutely no idea why Bucky insists on tormenting his existence.

 

And so when Steven hears his name being called when he almost purposely slams the front door shut, he only sighs once before marching towards his father’s voice. And his stride is so quick that he knows he isn’t giving himself enough time to make up any sort of excuse as to where he’d disappeared to regardless of the fact that he doesn’t even know how long he’s been missing. But none of it matters the second Steven steps into the lounge only to find that his father, once again, isn’t alone.

 

“You’re awfully late,” his father points out rather than scolds, an alien sort of approachability about him that should worry Steven. But Steven can’t seem to tear his eyes off of the man sitting in the armchair directly across from his father. The man smiling at him with a still steaming cup of mug in large hands that Steven knows far too well. “Well, don’t let it happen again. If you’re going to start work on Monday I highly doubt that your new boss here will be too pleased if you show up at work sluggish due to late nights out with friends.”

 

 _Work?_ Steven thinks.

 

 _New boss?_ He thinks harder.

 

Steven’s realizes that his blatant confusion must be written all over his face when Mr. Odinson gives him a desperate look that screams, _‘Just go with it’._


End file.
